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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29077881">Some Things Are Better Left Unsaid</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/thestarsandmars/pseuds/thestarsandmars'>thestarsandmars</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Criminal Minds (US TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, CIA, Case Fic, Flashbacks, Gen, Hurt Spencer, Hurt/Comfort, Mystery, Non-Chronological, Time Skips, Undercover, Wakes &amp; Funerals, emily and spencer used to be besties, emily was in the cia instead of interpol, kind of, season three, spencer reid's past</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 10:26:48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,114</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29077881</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/thestarsandmars/pseuds/thestarsandmars</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>After institutionalizing his mother, Spencer Reid is left in massive debt from the extensive medical bills. He has no choice but to except the job offer from a CIA special agent who's hell bent on including him in his next operation. </p><p>Nine years later, and his past is behind him. At least until that same special agent turns up dead. With a target on his back and the stress of his current teammates nosiness, he has to avenge his old friend's death.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Emily Prentiss &amp; Spencer Reid, Jennifer "JJ" Jareau &amp; Spencer Reid, Spencer Reid &amp; Original Female Character(s), Spencer Reid/Original Male Character(s), The BAU Team &amp; Spencer Reid</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>131</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Unknown Caller</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I hope you guys enjoy! Tell me your thoughts:)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <b>THE</b>
  <span> familiar buzz of Reid’s blackberry reverberates throughout his bedroom. He’s only just collapsed into his bed, barely even had enough time to process the immense comfort of his broken-in mattress and hand knitted blankets. He lingers for a moment, sinking into the mass of pillows and unmade sheets, before peeling himself out of the warmth and slinking away towards his phone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He plucks the phone up, off the top of his dust-ridden dresser, preparing himself for the more-than-likely possibility that he’ll be called back in for another case, even though they had solved the last one a matter of hours ago. But the number is labeled as unknown, and he hesitates for a moment before answering. By now, Garcia would probably be yelling at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Never pick up a call from an unknown number. Stupid, stupid boy! </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Her countless lectures on cyber security have clearly gone in one ear and out the other, for he clicks the answer button and brings the screen to his ear. “Hello?” he says, jamming the phone between his shoulder and his ear. There’s no immediate answer, so he begins to walk down the hall, towards his kitchen. If he can’t sleep, he’s going to eat, or rather microwave a bowl of instant noodles, neglect to eat them, and down an entire pot of coffee instead. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The irritatingly heavy sounds of breathing rush into his ears, and he almost chuckles at the stupidity. If you’re going to prank call someone, there’s a lot scarier things you could be doing than huffing and puffing into a speaker. Then, he realizes it’s not breathing, rather crying, and the shallow whimpers are painstakingly recognizable. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“R-Reid?” she whispers, her voice as syrupy smooth as it had been that fall evening when they first met. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The floor might as well have fallen out from under him, because he’s lost his hold on his phone, the metal clattering against the hard wood beneath him, and his ears have begun to ring. He drops to his knees, scrambling to pick the phone back up. Somehow, despite the slick layer of sweat lining his palms, and his shaking hands, he does. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“-re you there? Reid?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Y-yeah I’m here. Why are you calling me? We aren’t supposed to be in contact.” Reid’s knees still feel like jelly, so he settles for propping himself up against his kitchen cabinets. A circular knob digs into his back, uncomfortably, but he can’t bring himself to move. He’s not sure he could, even if he wanted to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s dead,” she chokes out, her words barely audible over the staticky hum of the cell phone. There’s only two people it could be, but deep down he already knows. He desperately needs her confirmation, because her continued silence is just prolonging the throbbing pain in his chest. He thinks his heart might actually break if she doesn’t rip the metaphorical bandaid off, and soon. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A silvery tear slips down his cheek, gathering in the hollow point above his lips. “Munce. It’s- it’s Harvey Munce, isn’t it?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>000</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Spencer had received the first email on his eighteen birthday, the twenty-eighth of October, 1999. He had been caught off guard the when he heard the soft chiming coming from his computer, signaling a message had been delivered to his inbox. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>His only correspondences so far had been to Ethan and Bennington Sanitarium. He had been arranging to get his mother institutionalized later that day, so he had ignored it. He had more important things to do than surf the internet. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The next morning, as he scrolled through his notifications, fresh tears still clinging to his eyelashes, he had hoped for a distraction. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Not a message from a man claiming to be a special agent with the CIA. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He had wanted a birthday message from Ethan, not this sick excuse for a joke. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Nimble fingers scrolled through the page, searching for an email address, so he could block them. He knew absolutely everything about the CIA; Gideon, a man he had met at a lecture the year before had gotten him interested in government agencies, and he had taken a special interest in them, although he would much rather work for the FBI. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The Central Intelligence Agency mainly focused on the collection of information from foreign nations, although domestic operations were not unheard of. There was a year long acceptance process, with a polygraph and several psychological evaluations, (which Spencer doubts he’d pass, considering where his mother was currently residing.) They didn’t make house calls, especially not to people like Spencer Reid. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He blocks the address and drags his finger across the mouse pad, clicking on the delete button, without a second thought. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He doesn’t think about it again, until two months later, when he’s jobless and drowning in medical bills, crying into Ethan’s shoulder on a couch he planned to sell later that week. “Y-you know, I got a job offer from the CIA. Maybe,” he chuckles dryly, “It was an email from some guy named Harvey Munce, who claimed to be an agent. I deleted it, though. It was probably a scam.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Ethan pushes him off with a gentle shove, running towards the laptop on Reid’s desk. “What’s wrong?” Reid sniffled, wiping a stray tear off his face with the back of his hand. “Ethan?” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Ethan unlocks his computer with ease, and Reid doesn’t even want to know why Ethan is aware of his password. “You can recover deleted emails, dumbass. You’re in debt. You need a job. This Munce guy was stupid enough to offer you one. It’s the ideal scenario.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Even if it’s real, emphasis on the if, how do you know the jobs still up for grabs? It’s been 67 days.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Well, let’s just email him and see.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>000</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The next morning was uneventful, and it seemed unfitting. Harvey deserved chaos and wide spread mourning, not a closed casket funeral with less than ten attendees. After the call last night, Spencer had been emailed an invite to the wake. In two days, he would watch as his second father figure was lowered into the ground. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He would have to claim a family emergency had popped up, if he even wanted a chance to attend. It was likely that if his team got a case, Hotch would call him back into the field, no matter how dire he made the situation sound. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The team couldn’t know the truth. They couldn’t know about his past or the people from it. Sometimes, it hurt to know that the people he loved most could never understand the things he’d been through, or the things he’d seen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Philip Dowd had not been his first kill and he could have aced his firearms test, had he put in an authentic effort. Spencer Reid was but an idea of the boy he used to be, the boy who had died on his 18th birthday, all those years ago. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Somewhere along the line, things had gotten hazy. If he’s not undercover, he’s not sure who he is, so he plays the role of his former self to gain some sense of normality, and every once in a while, he can convince himself it’s working. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everything is fine, so long as nobody knows. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everything is fine. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everything </span>
  <em>
    <span>used </span>
  </em>
  <span>to be fine, until Emily Prentiss, in all her glory, waltzed into the bullpen two years prior. It’d been quite a while since he had last seen her, but she looked all the same. Thick, black hair with a healthy sheen to it’s bouncy curls. Fair, blemishless skin and rosy cheeks. They used to call her Snow White, back in training. Princess, even, a play on her status as a socialite. If only they could see her now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Though no matter how much he admired her, or how capable she may be, she was a liability. She had been since the moment she infringed on Spencer’s territory. But now the stakes were higher. He couldn’t worry about the well being of himself and try to protect her at the same time (without her knowledge.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was going to have to warn her. After the phone call last night, if one thing was for certain, it was that anyone who knows anything about A6 was at risk, and she knows far more than she should. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Bad Blood</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Spencer runs to Emily's house, and they have a discussion.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I feel like this is kind of slow, but it'll pick up soon, I promise.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><b>VIRGINIA</b> is especially rainy this time of year, and Spencer despises it. He hates the sharp pounding of water against the sides of buildings, the way it clatters against glass windows like a shattering teacup. He hates the unsavory squelch of wet rubber against cement as his shoes make contact with the sidewalk. </p><p>Rainwater leaks into his shoes from the tears in the soles, and he’s not sure when the holes formed or where he is, or what the Hell is happening. He just knows he's running.</p><p>After the call, everything was a blur. He'd fallen asleep and woken up, then spiraled into some kind of panic attack once reality caught up with him. He’s aware of his final destination, although he’s not actively trying to get there. His brain is on autopilot, but everything’s too foggy to be completely accurate, so if he’s made a few wrong turns here and there, he’s not entirely sure. </p><p>It’s been a long time since he’s ran like this, years even. He hasn’t had a reason to until now. </p><p>When he arrives at Emily’s apartment complex, his hair is sopping wet and it’s dripping down onto his shoulders, following the slope of his stiffening jacket, down onto his arms. It’s horrible, and he hates it, but he doesn’t have the time to complain because he <em> needs </em>to talk to Emily, right now. </p><p>They’ve never actually discussed their past, at least verbally. He’s read the files that showed up on his desk mysteriously, and Emily has read too. He wasn’t supposed to know about Ian Doyle, but he did, and neither of them cared all that much. </p><p>The CIA had wronged them long ago, so confidentiality was more so a way of protecting themselves than the organization itself. They had come to the mutual conclusion that the other was of no perceivable threat to their respective futures, so it seemed that a bit of share and tell would do no harm. </p><p>Perhaps it had been a miscalculation on their part. </p><p>Emily Prentiss was in danger, and it was his fault. </p><p>He waited outside for a long while; it was late, and her apartment required a resident ID card for admittance. Eventually, Miss Stewart from the fourth level, a stout, elderly woman with whom he had made small talk with on many occasions, passed by the front entrance and saw him pleading to be let in. </p><p>She didn’t question his panic or the frantic, crazed look in his eyes, and he appreciated it. He shoved past her, a move he would later apologize for, and ran to the elevators, trailing water in his wake. </p><p>“Sweetheart, the elevators aren’t in use,” called Miss Stewart.  She pointed a shaky finger towards the stairwell, and he cursed out in frustration. “Everything all right, Spencer?” </p><p>He waved her off, scampering towards the entrance to the stairwell. He pushed open the rusting metal door with a wholehearted shove, propelling himself through the frame. Emily was on the third floor, and by the time he reached the top stair, he was nearly stumbling over himself, desperate to catch a breath. </p><p>There was a time when he could’ve climbed all the way to the top of her building ten times over, without so much as a huff. There was a time when he was happy and strong and saw everything through rose tinted glasses. Oh, how he wishes he could go back to The Great Before. He'd give an arm and a leg if it meant he could be back in his mother's California king as she whispered Vonnegut into his ears and braided his overgrown hair. </p><p>Emily opened her door before he even knocked, poking her head out into the hall. She looked silly, with her hair stacked in messy curlers and a gun in her hand, aimed directly at his chest. She'd always been paranoid. </p><p>“What’s wrong, Reid?” </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> 000 </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Reid? Reid, what’s wrong?”  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Emily waved a hand over his face, her well manicured nails prying his eyes open. He wondered at what point she would stop painting her nails, curling her hair, if ever. He smiled softly to himself, thinking of her as an old woman with greying hair, swaddled in the designer clothes she was so prone to. </em>
</p><p><em> The two of them stuck out like sore thumbs at training.  </em> <em> She was a socialite, (former, she’d claim), and it was fairly obvious. She’d shown up on their first day with greased black eyeliner rimming her eyes and full, reddened lips. Snow White, the men had called her, whistling after she had passed. The name had stuck.  </em></p><p>
  <em> Reid, however, was called names of a more unpleasant variety. He wouldn’t dare repeat them, if his mother ever found out, he thinks she might empty a bottle of dish soap into his mouth.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Snow? What happened?” Reid whimpers. She’s pulled her fingers away from his eyes, the tips of her nails now digging into the side of his neck. She watches with a grin as his pale skin bruises, as he pulls away with a wince. “What the Hell, Prentiss?”  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> She smirks, her red lips pulled taut. She’s really not supposed to be wearing any kind of makeup to training, but she bats her eyelashes at any man who questions her and none of them put up much of a fight. It’s disgusting, she thinks, how they think they have a chance with a woman like her.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> That’s why she likes Reid. He’s not of the belief that if a woman presents herself nicely, they wants to crawl into bed with you and fuck into Sunday. She’d never tell him that though; sooner than later, training will be over, and she’ll never see any of these people again, even Reid. There’s no point in forming deep, personal connections.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “You passed out halfway through the course. Don’t worry, Munce didn’t see,” she explains, grabbing him by the shoulders and pulling him into a sitting position. He resists, falling back onto the muddy trail and curling into the fetal position, breathing shallowly.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He’s small, smaller than he should be, she notices as he rests on the dirt path, his clothes ridden with grime. Reid refuses to tell anyone his real age, although if she had to guess, she’d say fifteen, even though you need to be at least eighteen to apply for training. He won’t tell her anything about his life, aside from his name and tidbits of stories about his “wonderful” mother. She thinks he’s lying though, or at least avoiding the truth.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I can’t do this,” he mutters, the sound muffled by the sleeve in his mouth. She wraps a slender hand around his wrist, pulling it away from his face. He’ll get sick from this, chewing on unsanitary fabric as he writhes in the rain slicked ground. She thinks maybe that's his goal. “I don’t know why I’m here.”  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I don’t know either, but you are. Get up,” Emily said, pulling him up again, this time more forcefully. She’s stronger than him, larger too. In no time, he’s on his feet, tears gathering in his waterline. “You can’t cry here, someone could see.”  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Why does it matter? I’m leaving.”  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Emily pushes him with the palms of her hands, and he stumbles backwards. When he regains his footing, she pushes him once more. “You’re an idiot, Spencer.”   </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “If you’re trying to convince me to stay, you’re failing miserably,” he chuckles, patting his eyes dry with the edge of his jumper.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “It’s eight miles back to base, two to finish. There’s no going back, Reid.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> 000 </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Reid rushed into Emily’s apartment, slamming the door shut once inside. “We need to talk.”</p><p>She nodded hesitantly, a loose curler threatening to unravel as she moved. Bare, bitten fingernails brushed his hair out of his face. “Take your shoes off. I’m going to get you a towel. You’re soaked.” </p><p>He looked down as he used his heels to pry his converse off his feet, frowning at the pool of water beneath him. The water was tinted pink, traces of blood swirling around the water. Somewhere along the line, debris must have made its way into his shoes through the holes, slicing at his skin. It didn’t hurt though. Nothing hurt anymore. </p><p>Emily returned, a fluffy beige towel in her hand, and a slightly rattier hand towel in the other, which he assumed was for the water trail. She wrapped the larger one around his shoulders, patting his hair with the end. He snatched the hand towel from her grip and fell to his knees. Sobs wracked through his body as he scrubbed. </p><p>“Reid-” Emily tried to tear the towel from his hands, but he resisted, “Spencer… you need to stop.” His fingers were pruned and red, the rough fabric abrasive against his skin. He continued on, stopping momentarily when his skin ran so thin that droplets of blood began spilling onto the floor. </p><p>He dropped it, sinking into the hardwood. “He killed him, Snow. They shot him in the head,” Reid cried, his skull clattering against the wood with an audible slam. </p><p>Emily hadn’t been called Snow in years. Not since she left and hadn’t looked back. </p><p>“Who, Spencer?” she sunk down onto the floor, encompassing him in a warm embrace. He thrashed, attempting to wrestle his way out of her hold. A punch landed on her jaw, one that would likely bruise. She flipped him so his back was against the ground, her hands latched into his wrists, pushing him into the floor. </p><p>“I-I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” His hand came up to her chin, brushing small, soothing circles over her skin. “I didn’t mean it, I-I promise.” </p><p>“I know Reid.” She rolled off of him, propping herself up one her elbows and motioning for Reid to set his head in her lap. He complied. “You need to tell me what’s going on.” </p><p>He nodded and began to explain. </p><p>“Harvey Munce,” he whispered, “was killed in his home last night. No sign of forced entry, shot execution style with a Glock-19 at close range. His bed sheets were placed over his head afterwards-” </p><p>“Remorse?” </p><p>“No- no, it doesn’t make sense. Forensics came back, and <em> the victim </em>was kneeling at the time of the murder. He was displaying his power over him.” </p><p>“The unsub could’ve had a vendetta. Maybe he wanted to scare him into submission and took things too far. Guilt could have set in once the adrenaline was gone, once he realized what he had done,” Emily theorized, running her hands through his hair. It was long now, shaggier. </p><p>“Bea Andeliver called me. She’s invited me to the funeral tomorrow.” </p><p>“Bea as in…” she trailed off. </p><p>He nodded sharply, “I don’t think you should come.” </p><p>“He trained us. I should be there, no matter how much I dislike the guy.” </p><p>“No, Emily. Anyone who knew him is a target as far as I’m concerned. You were his favorite. If the unsub dislikes him, chances are they dislike you too.” </p><p>“By that logic, you’re a target as well. Besides, why do you even want to go? Isn’t there bad blood-” </p><p>“We aren’t going to talk about this. I'm going,” he spat, jumping off of her. She raised her eyebrows at his defensiveness. “Work is in a few hours. We haven’t seen each other since last night, capeesh?” </p><p>“Capeesh.” </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I really hope you liked it! Feedback is always welcome. I always look forward to reading your comments:)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Hotch</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Reid and Emily apply for time off, so they can attend the upcoming funeral.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“<b>OH</b> my God! Sweet girl, what happened?” Penelope’s hands were on Emily’s face as soon as she stepped foot into the bullpen, bubblegum pink acrylics scratching softly at the reddened skin on her chin. The pressure was gentle, not deep or strong enough to cause an ache. </p><p>Emily smiled amicably, peeling Penelope’s hands away from her. She brushed her fingertips over the wound, remembering how frantic Reid had been, how unaware of himself and his surroundings earlier that morning. </p><p>She didn’t blame him; after what they’d been through, sometimes it was hard to determine who was on your side. The pattering of footsteps in the hall outside her apartment was enough to propel her into a bout of paranoia. She understood. She really, <em> really </em> did. </p><p>“I ran into a door this morning, it barely even hurts,” she lied, dropping her hand to her side. She passed Penelope with a small wave, walking to her desk briskly. On a normal day, Reid would already be seated at the desk to her right, reading files or filling out paperwork as he gulped down his coffee, disgustingly loudly. </p><p>But his chair was empty, and the coffee machine in the kitchenette area wasn’t running, which meant he wasn’t here yet. If he was trying to keep up appearances, he was doing a horrible job. Spencer Reid was exceptionally punctual, arriving at work even before Hotch on some occasions. If he kept this up, the plethora of <em> profilers </em> they worked with would begin to take notice. </p><p>After several minutes of dawdling around and pretending to be productive, (the several coffees she had downed before work hadn’t quite kicked in yet), she heard Morgan announce that <em> Pretty Boy was finally here.  </em></p><p>He stood at the entrance to the bullpen, looking worse for wear; cloudy hazel eyes were ringed with circles the color of ink, hollowed out cheekbones making him seem sullen and thin, as if he had been skipping meals. The others took notice of this, swirling around him, circling their prey.</p><p>Penelope attached herself to his sleeve, pulling it up to expose the bandage wrapped from his wrist to his bloodied knuckles. Emily knew that the punch to her face hadn’t caused that; when he left her apartment, there were only bruises, no such mutilation apparent on his skin. Punching walls again, she supposed. </p><p>Morgan was rubbing his forearms, slow and steady, warming him up for the incoming interrogation. “What the Hell happened to you, kid?” he asked, dark eyebrows knitted together in worry. He had been fine the day prior, tired albeit, but fine nonetheless. </p><p>Patent leather pumps clacked against the unpadded carpet, signalling JJ’s arrival to the bullpen. She was immediately attracted to the crowd, sending Emily a confused look before shuffling over to her other friends. </p><p>“Spence, what did you do to your hand?” asked JJ, tucking his unwashed hair behind his ear with a motherly touch. “It’s still bleeding,” she announced. With nimble hands, she tightened the gauze, tying it snug against his skin. </p><p>“Nothing- I just, I need to talk to Hotch,” said Spencer, prying away from them. </p><p>“Nuh-uh.” Morgan stepped in front of Reid, successfully blocking the path to Hotch’s office. His arms were crossed, chest puffed, standing taller than necessary. Reid didn’t have the patience to act intimidating, so he pushed past, clipping the side of Morgan's arm with his shoulder, ignoring his coworker's surprise. </p><p>“I also need to speak with Hotch,” Emily announced, breaking the tension. Reid’s eyes narrowed as he drew closer, and it was only then that she saw the faint outline of a hand on the left side of his face and smelled the sour perfume of cheap whiskey. What the Hell had he gotten himself into in the three hours he was alone? </p><p>“No, Emily-” </p><p>Her hand found the crook of his elbow, using it to pull him towards the stairs. “I’m going tomorrow. You don’t get to micromanage me,” she whispered, lips hovering over his ear. “Your mother is sick in Las Vegas, you need to be with her. My childhood best friend is getting married tomorrow. Regrettably, I’ll have to miss work.” </p><p>He sighed in frustration, but nodded in surrender, allowing himself to be dragged to Hotch’s office. Emily didn’t knock before pushing the door open, much to the dismay of both Hotch and Reid. “Rude,” he murmured under his breath, just loud enough for Emily to hear. She scoffed, pulling a chair out for herself and taking a seat. Reid chose to stand, feet planted in the corner of the room. </p><p>“My mom’s ill. Could I take tomorrow off to check up on her?” </p><p>Hotch nodded, focusing in on Emily. “That’s fine Reid. Why are you here?” he pointed to Emily, a lone finger outstretched towards the woman. </p><p>She leaned forward in her seat, elbows situated on the cool wooden edge of Hotch’s desk. “An old friend of mine is getting married tomorrow. It’s very last minute. So… I need the day off, if that’s alright with you, of course.” </p><p>Hotch sunk backwards into his chair, fingers clasped in his lap. He was curious, scowl deeping as he assessed the situation. “Neither of you have taken a day off in several months. You’re two of my most committed subordinates. It’s odd that you both choose to take the same day off. You do realize that don’t you?” </p><p>“Hotch, I really need to see my mom. C-can you just give me the okay, and I’ll be out of your hair,” Reid said, arms wrapped around his own waist protectively. </p><p>Hotch looked at Reid, <em> really </em>looked at him this time. “What happened to your face, Reid?” he asked, “And your hand?” </p><p>“I-it doesn’t matter.” </p><p>“Prentiss, you’re all bruised up too.” Hotch waited for a response, but when none came he continued, “What the Hell have you two gotten yourself into?” </p><p>“I’m teaching Reid hand to hand. He’s not doing great” Emily laughed, cocking her head towards the man in the corner, “You know how he is. What does this have to do with taking time off? We both have vacation days.” </p><p>“Reid, is that true? You and Prentiss have been sparring?” He nodded in confirmation. “Try to finish some of tomorrow’s work before you leave tonight. I expect you back on Thursday.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This chapter was mostly filler. I'm really sorry, the next chapter will be longer, and it'll provide more backstory.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. The Funeral</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The funeral</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>so sorry if there's any errors</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>WITHIN</b>
  <span> the rustic oak casket, lying solemnly atop a linen draped table, is the body of Harvey Munce. His head rests elsewhere, brain matter splattered over the popcorn ceiling of his home, chunks of skull and flesh sealed away in an evidence bag somewhere far, far away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reid wants to lift the cover and see what’s inside; it would be so easy. You’d think there’d be more security at the funeral of a well respected CIA agent, but he supposes that the other agents wandering the open field are enough protection. They’re all over the place, lurking in the shadows where they think nobody will pay any mind. But Reid sees them. He sees her. Bea Andeliver. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She has taken the phrase, “hiding in plain sight,” all too literal, sprawled across a garden chair in the center row, legs splayed wide as if she owns the place. Although she tries hard to hide it, she sees him too. As soon as his back is turned, her eyes are on him, burning holes in the back of his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He thinks he’ll speak with her later, if he can shake Emily for long enough to have a private conversation. Emily doesn’t like to be out of the loop, and he doesn’t blame her, but it's becoming exceedingly difficult to grieve when she’s constantly on his heels. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He approaches the casket slowly, heeled dress shoes sinking further into the rain slicked grass with every step. Emily trails behind him, a hand rubbing slow circles on the plane of covered skin between his shoulder blades. He wants to tell her to stop, but the words get caught halfway down his throat, sinking down along with the sour bile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She gets the message though, placing her gloved hand into the pocket of her overcoat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He reaches the body, but he can’t bring himself to look down. So he looks to the sky instead, taking in the de-saturated sky, the way the translucent moon peeks through the clouds, even though it’s only just reached midday. Off in the distance, past the courtyard, lay a grove of blackening weeping willows who shed leaves like tears. Reid closes his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He finds solace in those willows, who are forced to watch as families cry, huddled over the corpses of their lost loved ones as they decay into dust. Reid is comforted by their similarities. He too, is forced to stand by and watch as flies drop, as families plead and beg for their loves to return home safe and sound. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His hand finds the glazed oak, gliding over the wood. He feels small droplets of water, warm and damp against his skin. At first he thinks it’s begun to rain again, but when he opens his eyes, he’s met only with clear, gloomy air and the bitter wind against his face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The willows aren’t the only ones crying today. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks down. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>000</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Go fish!” shouts Reid, waving his stack of cards around through the air. He’d won every round tonight and is by no means a gracious winner. He giggles and gloats and squirms around happily each time, and it’s incredibly irritating to everyone else gathered in Bea and Emily’s shared room, but there’s an unspoken rule not to disrupt him. It’s not often that they see him act so joyously. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“This is impossible,” Bea sighed. She slammed her cards down onto carpet and half-crawled towards the bowl of popcorn in Emily’s lap, plucking a piece out, licking it, and sticking it to Reid’s cheek with a mischievous smirk. Reid flicked it away with a grimace, but chose not to comment. With Bea, it was best to pick your battles.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“You realize you’re playing a memory game against a certifiable genius with an eidetic memory, right?” said Reid, letting his head fall to the floor. He was curled up around Emily, his bare feet in her lap, fingers lazily tracing the glass edge of the popcorn bowl that balanced atop her thighs. It threatened to spill over with each whole-hearted laugh, rocking in her lap as her chest heaved, as her hands clapped softly. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Funny how you’re only a genius when it benefits you,” Scout mumbled. He rarely spoke, thoughts running too fast for his mouth to catch up. When he did, it was meek and nearly inaudible through the thick southern drawl and jumbled speech. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Emily’s eyes widened in amusement, “He speaks!” she said dryly, leaning over to pinch at his cheeks, tut-tutting when he pulled the collar of his hoodie over the bottom half of his face. Reid held the bowl tight in her lap as she moved. Reckless, he thought. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“No, Scouts right,” Bea stood up, stalking towards the mini fridge in the corner of the room and crouching in front of the open door. Empty. “You’re always droning on and on about how intelligence isn’t quantifiable.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“It isn’t, unless you’re me,” he replied smugly, still on his winner’s high. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Footsteps sounded in the hall. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Emily flinched, sending popcorn through the air. It landed everywhere; on hair and beds and threadbare carpet. “Shit!” Reid was already up on his knees, scrambling to pile together the crumbs and seeds along with Bea and Scout. Emily’s hand was clasped over her mouth, stopping the pleas and apologies from flowing out. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The footsteps were getting louder. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>They gave up on piling, silently deciding to shove the food underneath the bed. Popcorn wasn’t allowed. Neither was breaking curfew. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>A fist was knocking on their door. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I’m sorry! Please, I-I am so sorry,” Emily whispered, tucking the glass bowl and a deck of cards underneath her pillow case. Reid and Scout tucked themselves into the closet, toppling over each other in their rush. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The brass door handle jiggled as the door was pushed open, shoving the towel that had been tucked under the crease to the side. The silhouette of a man and a woman stood in the door, hands on hips. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It wasn’t him. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Thank God.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Reid, Scout, it’s fine. It’s just Valencia and Owen. You can come out.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“No- no it’s not fine. What the Hell were you guys thinking?” Valencia cried, running her hand through the mess of tangled brown curls that cascaded down her chest. She had it pinned to the side like she always did on date nights, when her and Owen would sneak out and run to the docks at the edge of camp, wading in the murky water till sunrise. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“What do you mean?” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“We could smell the popcorn from all the way outside,” Owen said, shutting the door tight behind him. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“No. W-we put a towel underneath the door to block the smell.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Well it didn’t work, Genius.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>000</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em><span>`</span></em> <span>His hands traveled down the slope of the casket, tracing the ledge, the latch. It would be so, so easy to open it. He thinks it would be satisfying to see his tormentor, his savior, his pseudo father, resting peacefully against the linen, his head blown off. </span></p><p>
  <span>Emily grasps his hand and pulls it off the wood. “Don’t.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What if he’s not dead?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He is.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shakes his head. He needs proof, but it would be wrong to seek it out now. Not here. Not in front of everyone. “Is this a blessing or a curse?” he asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emily doesn’t respond. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>000</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>A door creaks open somewhere in the far off distance. Normally, they appreciate the noises of the old house. The rusted hinges and loose floorboards serve as a warning of what’s to come. They’re given enough time to clean, to tuck themselves into bed or hide away under stacks of towels in the closet before he comes. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But now it feels more like a death sentence. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>There’s no way for the four of them to fit in the closet, especially with Reid’s height and Owen’s broad shape. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The smell of popcorn is imminent in the air, more noticeable now that it’s been pointed out. It’s nauseating. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>They can’t hide this time. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Shit, shit, shit, shit. Shit. Shit!” Valencia exclaims, pounding the heel of her palm into her forehead. Owen grasps her wrist with one hand, stopping her from hurting herself further, and flicks the light switch with the other. Darkness encompasses the room. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Shut up! Sh-” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Owen locks the door, but it’s no use. He has a key and it’s already twisting through the hole. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Spencer pushes Owen and Valencia out of the doorway, taking their place. He’s small and awkward, but a natural born protector. He’s been self sacrificial since he was a kid, surrendering himself to his father to save his mother. She didn’t deserve to be hit, just like Emily and the rest of them don’t either. Reid tells himself it’s okay; he can take it. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The door creeps open, amber light from the hallway seeping into the room, illuminating the left side of Spencer’s face. He wants to close his eyes, so he can pretend that Munce hasn't stepped into the room, drunk out his mind. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Munce is a rat-like man with buck teeth and a scrappy, greying beard despite his age of 32. He doesn’t look much like a sleek, professional agent at first glance, although none of them really do. That’s sort of the point of going undercover. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Patchy rosacea pinkens his cheeks, disappearing down into his facial hair and up into his temples. The rosiness makes him look kinder, more approachable, but it’s not what drew Reid in. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Munce had eyes like Diana Reid, blue and warm, framed in sparse eyelashes. Unfortunately, what Reid would later discover, is that he had the temperament of William Reid. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The man was training a total of ten future agents; nobody knew why, just that they had been hand selected by Munce himself, and that they were not to speak of it to anyone outside their little circle, even other CIA. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Five would be chosen. That’s what they’d been told. Nobody knew for what, just that it would happen eventually. When they were ready, he always said. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Spencer, I believe you live in room 4,” said Munce, voice scratchy from disuse. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Yes, sir.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“This is room 2.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Yes, sir.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Recite rule 34a for me, son,” Munce spat, the scent of whiskey tickling at his nostrils. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Trainees 1-10 are not permitted to eat non-approved food under any circumstance. No food is to be consumed aside from designated times. Punishment will be enacted upon violation,” he recited, straight from the handbook. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“12c.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Trainees 1-10 are not permitted to gather past curfew. Punishment will be enacted upon violation.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“How many of my trainees are in this room Spencer?” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Six, sir.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Six people, two violations. That’s twelve punishments. Would you like to accept all twelve?” he asked, smiling sadistically. He wasn’t always like this. Sometimes, when he hadn’t been stuffing himself full of alcohol all night, he’d come home and wish them good night. He'd buy them groceries and help them spar. Only sometimes, though. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Spencer hesitated for a moment too long. Twelve was a lot. He’d be lucky if he hadn’t passed out by ten. Munce took his silence as denial. “No? Well then, Scout will do. Scout, go wait for me in room 6.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Scout didn’t move, cowering behind Owen, whose arms wrapped around him instinctively. “Come on Spence, Scout’s still sore from the last one,” Owen whispered sadly, knowing full well that Reid still limped after what happened the week prior. Because Scout couldn't handle it, but Spencer could.  </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“N-no. I’ll do it,” said Spencer, allowing himself to be dragged out into the hall. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>They don’t talk about what happens in room 6. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>000</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Emily’s cell phone rang sharply, pulling Reid out his trance. She pulled the phone out of her pocket swiftly, clicking answer. Her eyebrows furrowed when she saw the caller ID, but it was out of Reid’s view. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hotch?” Emily asked, bringing a lone finger up to her lips, telling Reid to keep quiet. He nodded and she pressed the speaker button. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Prentiss.” He was angry, that much was clear from the tone of his voice. He continued, “You lied to me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you talking about?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You and Reid are still in Virginia,” he began, voice wavering uncharacteristically, “I need you to tell me what’s going on.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hotch the wedding’s in Virginia. And Reid’s flight probably got delayed. It’s raining like crazy out here.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Enough with the lies, Prentiss. I had Garcia track your phones. I know you two are together.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emily paused, scoffing, “You had no right to do that, Hotch,” she argued, eyebrows knitting together. “It’s a total invasion of privacy.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a beat of silence before Hotch began, “We aren’t talking about this over the phone. I expect you two back at my office before the end of the day."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emily hung up without responding. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>this was the longest chapter yet! I really hope you enjoyed it. I love reading your comments, so please leave some feedback&lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Crash and Burn</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Emily has unresolved issues. Like a lot.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>“FUCK! </b>
  <span>Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Reid exclaimed, pacing around the empty parking lot. This was supposed to be his fresh start. A chance for him to be himself, without the constant threat of being exposed looming over his head. He just wanted </span>
  <em>
    <span>one</span>
  </em>
  <span> thing, all for himself. Was privacy so much to ask for? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His lies may have been destructive, but right now, honesty would be cataclysmic. Hotch couldn’t, </span>
  <em>
    <span>shouldn’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>know about any of it. His past, Munce, the funeral. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He and Emily needed to get their stories straight. If they wanted Hotch to buy it, they needed to come up with something believable, something based in truth.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Calm down, Reid. You’re making me anxious,” Emily said, opening the car door for him. He nodded, pulling himself into the van, ducking his head so as not to bump it on the shallow ceiling. She turned on her heels, hurrying towards the other side of the car and slipping into the driver's seat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We need to think of something to tell him,” he announced, letting his head fall back onto the suede headrest. It had begun to drizzle, a soft spray of water falling onto the windshield. Reid watched as the droplets glided down the pane, one after another. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emily turned her head towards him sharply, dark hair swaying, “We don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>need </span>
  </em>
  <span>to tell him anything.” Her lips were pursed, fine lines settling around them that Reid was sure hadn’t been there yesterday.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Emily! If we… if we go in there a-and spew lies, he’ll know. We need to tell him some fragments of the truth if we want to keep our jobs.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emily chuckled dryly, “Fuck our jobs Reid. We are </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>going back to the office, </span>
  <em>
    <span>ever</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” Reid stared at her, stunned by her bluntness. He shook his head in disbelief, mumbling something so low that Emily couldn’t hear. “What was that?” she asked mockingly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How many more times are you going to run away from your problems?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>000</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Guys, where’s Snow?” asked Reid, popping his head into the doorway of Bea and Emily’s room. He hadn’t seen her all day, and the rest of their friends had been ignoring him since breakfast. Even Valencia, who always went out her way to make him feel included. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He scanned the room, eyebrows knitting together in confusion at the emptiness. The group was all in there, even the loners who typically kept to themselves. They huddled over a slip of paper, arguing amongst themselves so loudly that they hadn’t heard him come in. He ignored the noise, choosing to analyze the bedroom instead. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The mattress that was typically obscured by a dark cotton sheet was bare and yellowing. The white bedside table was stripped of its small lamp and alarm clock, looking uncharacteristically empty without the clutter. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Her curling iron and makeup kit were no longer resting atop the dresser. Half the towels from the open linen closet were missing, clothes too. There was no longer an Aerosmith poster taped to the ceiling about the bed. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>All of Emily’s things were gone.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>000</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s completely unfair.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What you did was unfair. To all of us.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What was I supposed to do, Reid?” she shouted, shoving her key into the ignition, twisting it with more power than was necessary. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Valencia cried for three days straight. He beat her half to death for it-” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She pressed her foot down onto the accelerator, not bothering to check for pedestrians behind her as she put the car in reverse and pulled out of the parking space. “Shut up.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you doing, Emily?” Reid exclaimed as the car jerked. “Calm down.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t run away from my problems,” she ignored him pointedly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then why did you leave me?” he cried out, reaching up to the handle above the car door for support. His body was propelled forward, and if it weren’t for the seat belt strapped to his chest, he would have been half way through the windshield by now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She drove faster, exiting the lot and turning onto the main road, neglecting to listen to his pleas. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>000</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Bea noticed him first, hands rushing to grab the paper and tuck it behind her back. She nudged Owen with a tight fist, and he looked up at Reid with a distraught look on his face. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Reid had always tried his best not to let the other trainees see him cry. Owen and a couple of the others had given him Hell the first few weeks of training and crying would be like pouring gasoline on the fire, goading them on. Still, he couldn’t help the tears that welled in his eyes. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Because he knew that one of two things had happened. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Either Munce took “training” too far and Snow, his best friend, was dead or she left him all alone here. He’s not sure which is worse. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“He needs to know,” Valencia sniffled, wiping at the snot underneath her nose with the back of her hand. She looked a mess, hair ruffled beyond belief, a thin layer of mascara dripping out from underneath her eyes. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Bea nodded reluctantly and set the paper down onto the floor, inviting him to come take a look. He walked over slowly, feet touching the same floorboards where Emily had once stood, done pushups, wrapped her bruised knuckles with gauze, where she had lived. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Was she even living? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He grabbed the paper and began to read. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>000</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Em- Emily, stop!” Reid shrieked, watching through the windshield as the van weaved through rows of cars. Reid was no longer the only one begging her to stop. Cars honked as she passed, some drivers flipping her off, others sending them concerned looks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you doing, Snow?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She looked at him apologetically. Her knuckles were beginning to turn white from the pressure against the steering wheel. Her eyes flickered up towards the sky, praying to a God she didn’t believe in, before settling back towards Reid’s face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Faking our deaths.” She turned the car abruptly, off the road, into a grassy field covered in weeds and wildflowers. The car spun and she let go of the wheel, placing her hands on the back of her neck and tucking her chin into her chest. “I’m sorry. They’re going to get too close” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The air bags ignited, blocking Reid’s field of vision in a cloud of off-white. Slowly but surely, the white turned to black, fading in from the corners. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wasn’t unconscious yet, at least he didn’t think so. He could feel and hear everything. Strong hands pulling him out through the open door. The burning of a billion little cuts littering his skin. Blood dripping down his forehead. Emily’s plentiful apologies. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A bullet colliding against metal. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fire curling at his feet. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>000</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m sorry. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I can’t handle this anymore. I didn’t sign up for this. I wanted to be in the CIA, not this shitshow. Someday, maybe I’ll meet you all again (I’m not dead or anything, don’t worry). But until then, don’t look for me. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Bea, please promise me you’ll take care of Spencer for me. God knows he needs it. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>-Emily Prentiss. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>000</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When he opens his eyes, he’s met with a raging fire. It’s enveloping the van, along with all of his belongings. His suitcase. His umbrella. The books he brought along for the drive. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t sign up for this either. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>:)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Sunlight</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>HOTCH</b>
  <span> is sitting in his office, waiting for his two rogue agents to return home, when he gets the call. The caller ID is unknown to him, so he declines, not in the risk-taking mood. But then they call again. And again. So finally, the fourth time it rings, he clicks answer and brings the speaker to his ear. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hotchner,” he says. It’s become a habit to answer the phone this way. He’s done it for years, and will most likely continue on this way for many more to come. Professional, brief, emotionless. It fits Hotch to a tee. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Am I speaking with Aaron Hotchner?” a man asks, voice tense and hesitant. He doesn’t want to be the one making this call, Hotch is sure of it. </span>
  <em>
    <span>That’s not a good sign</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he thinks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes. What’s this about?” Deep down, already knows; Prentiss and Reid. He’s not sure what they’ve done, but it’s probably bad. Those two are attracted to danger like bees to fresh honeysuckle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s a brief pause before the young man speaks again. “You-” he falters. His breath crackles through the speaker phone, hanging heavy in the stale air of the office. “Sir… you’re needed at the Quantico Police Department. Normally, we’d send someone out to collect you, but we’ve been having a tough time locating you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His jaw pulls tight. “May I ask what this is all about?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he already knows</span>
  <span>. He’s watched JJ make this call dozens of times in the past year alone. Somewhere in the somber tone and the words unspoken he’s able to figure things out. He knows, but he doesn’t want to believe it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>From the moment they sat across from him in this very office, and lied right to his face, he knew something was bound to go horribly, horribly awry. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry sir, but I think we should have this conversation in person. I can have someone drive you out here if you would prefer.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...No- no, that’s fine. I’ll be there soon.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hotch flips his phone shut, grabs his raincoat off the back of his chair and ventures off in search of answers. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>000</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In the seconds between sleep and consciousness, Spencer can feel the gentle warmth of sunlight dancing across his face. He doesn’t have to open his eyes to know it’s there. It reminds him of his youth, after his father left, when the space heater broke halfway through winter and his mother’s disability benefits weren’t enough to buy a new one. He’d lounge in the squares of sunlight beneath the living room windows when it got too cold, savouring the snugness of light against his skin and the way that the shadows shifted as he moved. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment, he can convince himself he’s there; a cotton sheet clinging to his body as he stretches like a cat. His mother would weep, the sounds traveling all the way downstairs from her bedroom. The words of Vonnegut and Twain would echo around his mind, just barely drowning out his mother’s cries. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tries to search for a fonder memory, one where he’s perfectly content, but he finds nothing significant. He curls in on himself, eyes still shut tight. What vendetta could the universe possibly have against the lanky kid who only ever wanted to help? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s shaken fully awake by a familiar set of hands. He blinks slowly and peers up at Emily’s face through half lidded eyes. An intricate shadowed pattern is etched out across her features, like light is shining down on her through lace. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He props himself up on his elbows and looks around the room. The curtains are drawn tight, but the pale lace isn’t doing much in terms of privacy. Small porcelain figurines rest in lines atop the window sill, smiling carelessly through rose painted lips. Soft jazz music leaks in through the open door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s in a small bedroom with lilac colored walls. He’s put at ease by this, having always liked purple. He’s curled up on a children’s bed with a floral duvet, feet hanging over the edge. The room belongs to an adolescent girl. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where are we? What’s going on?” he asks, pulling the blankets off his legs and perching himself on the edge of the bed frame. She places a hand on his forearm to help soothe him, but he shoves her off. “What were you thinking?”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was </span>
  <em>
    <span>thinking</span>
  </em>
  <span> that we’d be putting countless people in danger by continuing to work with the BAU!” said Emily, “We got too close to them. By interacting with them everyday, by loving them, we’re endangering them. Besides, if we have any chance of getting out of this alive, we can’t be ourselves anymore.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He ran a hand through his hair, not responding. The remnants of water clung to the ends of his hair, wetting his fingertips. Someone had bathed him. “Why is my hair wet?” he asked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It had been a while and you still weren’t waking up so we tried splashing water on you, but it didn't work.” she responded casually, as if that was a perfectly natural response. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who’s we?” he exclaimed, “Why wouldn’t you take me to the hospital?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What part of being dead don’t you understand?” Emily deadpanned. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What the fuck,” he murmured into his sleeve, chewing on the hem. He hadn’t yet realized it wasn’t his shirt. “Who is we?” he repeated. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She peeled the sleeve out of his mouth, and when he looked down to see the foreign shade of blue, he grimaced and rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. “He’s an old contact of mine. He’ll give us new identities. Passports, IDs, that kind of thing. You’re lucky he let us stay the night.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So we’re in his house?” She nodded. “Why am I in a child’s bed?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“His daughter is at his ex-wife's house right now,” Emily explained. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He noticed the distinct smell of cooking oil and pancakes wafting in through the open door next to the bed. Spencer sniffed at the air, perking up. Emily smiled down at him, offering out a hand to help him stand. He took it, rising with a wince. “Why was I asleep for so long? And why is there a literal criminal cooking breakfast for us and listening to jazz music?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She chuckled warmly, “You got knocked out after the crash, and then woke up and fell back asleep. You weren’t unconscious the whole time, just </span>
  <em>
    <span>very </span>
  </em>
  <span>tired, apparently.” Emily smiled as she leaned over to pinch his cheeks. “And Mike’s not a criminal, per say. At least not in the way you’re thinking. He’s very nice. We go way back.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nodded and began to make his way towards the door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Twenty percent of all traumatic brain injury hospitalizations are the result of a vehicle crash. 155 people in the United States die each day due to a brain trauma,” he recited. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her thin brows pulled together in confusion. “What are you trying to tell me?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He ducked his head to avoid hitting it on the top of the doorway as they walked through. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You should probably take me to a physician sometime soon,” answered Reid. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emily shook her head violently, “No. No doctors. You have several PHDs. I’m sure you’ll be able to diagnose yourself with… something,” she grabbed his hand and led him into the hallway, “Now come meet Mike, we need to discuss some things.” </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Longer chapters coming soon!!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Denial</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>I believe in sibling!JJ &amp; Hotch supremacy, so that's what this is. Enjoy.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><strong>DUSK</strong> approached rapidly, encompassing the office in shadows and artificial illumination from the small lamps and overhead lighting. Derek rocked in his seat anxiously, glancing over his shoulder every time the elevators whirred open or a door was slammed a bit too loudly. Emily and Reid should have been back hours ago; any minute now, they’d come traipsing into the bullpen, and he would be the first to scold them for their stupidity. <em> Any minute now </em>. </p>
<p>Hotch, who had left hours earlier with a sulky expression on his already grim face, should also have returned already. Derek didn’t know what that was all about. </p>
<p>He did know, however, of the white lies that had been told by Reid and Emily, courtesy of Garcia, and boy was he upset. Derek’s anger was contained though, and already fading; he trusted that his friends would not lie without good reason. Eventually, they would come clean. They were good like that. Genuine. </p>
<p>JJ, sitting cross legged a few feet to his left, was also very clearly distressed. She sat at an empty desk in the corner of the bullpen, staring teary-eyed at photographs of mutilated children; on a normal day, she’d tuck herself into her office and do this privately, but today was different. An unsettled feeling was building deep in her gut, and it grew when she was alone, isolated. She ran a shaky hand through her golden hair, picking out all the little knots that had accumulated over the course of the day. </p>
<p>“This is horrible,” she whispered, slamming the files down on the laminate surface below her, blinking away the wetness in her eyes. How could someone do that to a child? </p>
<p>Her hand wove its way down to her stomach, cradling the bottom. Slowly, the shaking in her fingers steadied. </p>
<p>She couldn’t wait for Emily and Reid to return. They would be the first to know about her and Will's baby, the one growing painstakingly slowly in her belly. An image of brightened hazel eyes, crinkling through a wide grin, and the swaying of raven hair as a head shook in disbelief appeared in her mind. They’d be so, so happy to hear the news. </p>
<p>A smile pulled at her rosy lips. </p>
<p>“What’s go you smilin’ all of a sudden?” Derek asked, leaning back in his chair. The fluorescent overhead lights cast a pale grey hue to his dark skin, crowning atop his head like a halo. She smiled wider. </p>
<p>“You’ll find out soon,” she eluded, tucking a stray hair behind her ear. “Where is everyone?” </p>
<p>He gave her a playful look, as if he already knew the secret she was trying so hard to conceal. She blushed, not wanting the rest of the team to know, at least not until Emily and Reid had the chance to meet Will formally. “Babygirl’s been in her office all day. Something’s up,” he sighed. JJ nodded, and they lapsed into momentary silence. </p>
<p>It was interrupted by the buzz of the elevator as it approached the top floor. Derek spun in his chair, practically springing to his feet when he saw the familiar leather dress shoes, the lightly patterned tie. </p>
<p>“Jayge, Hotch is here.” </p>
<p>He stepped out into the hall, trailing into the bullpen, and for the first time in all the years they'd known him, Hotch looked utterly heartbroken. It’s was as if he’d aged a thousand years since that morning. His scowl had deepened, two harsh identical lines stretching down alongside his mouth. Glossy black hair was no longer combed to perfection, rather mussed and unruly, as if he’d run a hand through it a dozen times in the past hour. </p>
<p>“Hotch? What’s wrong?” JJ immediately began to “mother hen” him, hurrying over to him and placing a hesitant hand onto his shoulder. She’d like to flatten his hair, give him a maternal pat on the cheek, but she was afraid to overstep the boundaries that had been set. </p>
<p>“Round table room, now.” He pushed her away, like how you’d swat a fly off fruit in summertime, ignoring her obvious flinch. “Get Garcia and Rossi,” he grumbled, walking off. </p>
<p>JJ nodded and flattened her skirt with the palms of her hands, embarrassed by her response. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em> 000 </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“What’s this all about, Aaron?” Rossi asked, looking thoroughly displeased. He had nearly been finished with his work when JJ knocked on his door, demanding he join the rest of them in the conference room. </p>
<p>Hotch stood in front of the white screen in the back of the room, grasping onto the ledge of the round table. “Everyone take a seat. We’ll wait for Penelope,” he murmured. The skin around his knuckles was white from the pressure, a dull ache he felt deep in his knuckles. It was nothing compared to the turmoil inside of him. </p>
<p>Garcia whirled in through the open door, a hurricane of magenta tulle and lustrous blonde hair. She scanned the room with wide eyes, searching for the familiar faces she had so dearly missed. Taupe eyebrows twisted in confusion. “Where are geniuses 1 and 2?”</p>
<p>Hotch ignored her, "Sit." Morgan pulled out an office chair for her, and she took it graciously, with a flirtatious wink. “I have some unfortunate news to share with you all,” he began. He hunched over the table, lowering himself to their level. From the angle he positioned himself at, the shadows beneath his eyes increased in depth and darkness. </p>
<p>“This morning, on their way back to Quantico, Emily and Reid were in a car wreck.” </p>
<p>JJ inhaled sharply; the beginning to this spiel was already too familiar for comfort. She recognized the slow, meaningful tone, the dry red eyes and blunt preamble. “Oh God.” </p>
<p>“From here on out, things are going to be tough, but I’m confident we’ll be able to get through this as a team,” he continued. He spoke in a monotone manner, like he was reading directly out of a brochure. <em>Coping With Grief and Loss: the Ultimate Guide.</em> </p>
<p>JJ’s hand clasped atop her mouth, forcing the incessant need to vomit to die down. </p>
<p>Her hazy blue gaze wandered around the room; Penelope and Derek, who sat across from her, looked concerned, but not grief-stricken. They hadn’t yet realized what Hotch was getting at. </p>
<p>“Where are they? Are- are they alright?” Penelope cried. Derek’s hand made its way to hers across the table, thumb rubbing soft circles across her pale skin. </p>
<p>“I apologize, I should have been more clear.”<em> Yes, you should have, </em>JJ thought. There’s a reason she’s the one who breaks the news to the families of victims. “It’s unclear what events led to the crash at this time, but somewhere along the line the gas tank was punctured, and the car exploded… Emily and Spencer didn’t survive. I’m so sorry.” His voice broke before he could continue, although he showed no sign of being anywhere near tears. </p>
<p>The only perceivable sound in the small, cramped room was the steady hum of the air conditioner. JJ tried to speak, she really did, but the only sound that escaped her lips was a silent, choked off sob. Scared of further upsetting Penelope, whose eyes were quickly filling with tears, she rose from her seat, smoothed the wrinkles out of her pencil skirt, and hurried out of the room. </p>
<p>Penelope released an open mouthed sob as JJ left, strings of spit clinging to the corner of her cherry lips. “No,” she whined, “She- she was just here yesterday. And Reid… we’re going to a convention next week. He’s not dead. He- he’s been knitting his scarf for weeks! He’s not dead.” </p>
<p>Derek jumped out of the office chair and enclosed her in a hug wordlessly, cradling her head against his chest. “It’s okay,” he cooed, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. “It’s alright.” </p>
<p>Hotch swallowed the lump in his throat. “I’ll keep you updated on the investigation,” he announced as he stood casually, like he’d just finished a run of the mill briefing. He had one foot firmly plante halfway out the door when Morgan intervened. “That’s it then, man? You’re just dropping that on us and leaving?” A sharp slap to the wooden surface emphasized his shouts. </p>
<p>Hotch pretended he hadn’t heard and continued on into the hall, closing the door shut behind him. The sounds of Penelope's sobs were muffled through the oak.</p>
<p>Crumpled on the ground a few feet from the doorway was JJ, staring off into the bullpen. She watched as Anderson and Gina laughed at their desks, sharing apple slices and gossiping about something she couldn’t hear. Reid normally ate lunch with them; they’d talk about the latest episodes of their favorite science fiction series’ and argue over plot lines. Clearly, they hadn’t taken much notice of his absence. </p>
<p>She grimaced. </p>
<p>When a door was slammed shut next to her, she jumped at the sound. Her boss stepped out, so she patted away her tears instinctively and prepared for a confrontation. Before she could acknowledge his presence, he threw his head back against the cinder block wall, letting out an airy breathe. A single tear slid down the slope of his cheek, glinting in the fluorescent lighting. JJ looked away, uncomfortable in seeing him in such a private moment. She felt like a voyeur, and not the sexy fun kind.</p>
<p>“Uh, hi.” </p>
<p>His head snapped towards her, a deer caught in headlights. When he saw who it was, he chuckled dryly. “Jennifer.”</p>
<p>His acknowledgment of her presence was not the one she sought after, spoken as if her name tasted sour on his tongue. </p>
<p>Her lips pulled tight into something akin to a smile. She knew exactly what he was doing; she'd done the exact same thing to her mother after her parents death. “You know you don’t have to hide your emotions from us,” she began, “We’re your family.”</p>
<p>Hotch didn’t respond, looking down at her longingly. “It’s different for me,” he said, providing no further explanation. After a moment, he continued, “I… if I tell you something, do you promise not to tell anyone?” Blonde fringe swayed as she shook her head softly, warm cobalt eyes pleading with him to open up.</p>
<p>“I don’t think they’re dead.” </p>
<p>JJ chewed at her lips, processing what had been said. She lifted a dainty hand into the air, and motioned for him to sit down. Unexpectedly, he compiled without complaint. It was strange seeing him in such an odd position, legs folded up into his chest, head propped up on his knees. He looked like a small child. </p>
<p>“It’s natural, Aaron. Nobody wants to believe that their loved ones are dead. Denial is the first stage of grief, you know that,” said JJ. She licked her fingers obnoxiously and finally reached over to his hair, attempting to smooth it down. He flinched away before she could, but smiled nonetheless. </p>
<p>“That’s not what I meant.” </p>
<p>She looked at him quizzically, slapping her saliva-slicked hand on the linoleum floor. “What <em> did </em>you mean?” </p>
<p>“Forget it, it’s stupid. I mean you’re probably right. This is just grief.” </p>
<p>He began to get up, but she grabbed his hand and pulled him back down. “No! You don’t get to do that. Tell me what you meant.” </p>
<p>His jaw clenched, teeth grinding as he settled back on the ground. Dust from the tile transferred onto his pressed slacks, and he frowned, displeased. As he swept it away, he began to speak, “I was called down to the station, and when I got there, they wouldn’t let me see the crime scene photos or even read the report or anything. Said I wasn’t granted proper clearance. And… I- I told them I was FBI, but it was like every time I asked about it they just got more and more closed off, defensive even. So I stayed there for hours, and eventually, I got the lady at the front desk to slip me the preliminary report.” </p>
<p>JJ waited for him to continue, but eventually the lapse of silence grew uncomfortably long. “What was in it?” she urged. </p>
<p>“Nothing.” </p>
<p>“Nothing?” </p>
<p>He shook his head, “There were photos of the car, a list of witnesses, transcripts of the 911 reports, and that was it. No photos of the bodies. No explanation as to how the car exploded, which is odd because frankly, that doesn’t just happen out of nowhere. And no forensics. It’s like they didn’t even investigate.” </p>
<p>“Why didn’t you tell the rest of the team?” she asked. </p>
<p>He sighed, “I don’t want to give them false hope.” </p>
<p>Her eyebrows furrowed, “Then why are you telling me?” </p>
<p>Hotch rose, and this time she didn’t object, rather taking his outstretched hand and joining him. “You have national connections, an eye for profiling, and I know that if anybody were to suspect that a private investigation was being conducted, you’d be the last person they’d expect for me to choose.” He smiled softly at her, in a brotherly way.</p>
<p>“We’re going to get to the bottom of this, you and I.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I'm so sorry for ghosting for like an entire month. I've been really busy, but I'm going to try to update every monday from now on. (key word try)</p>
<p>Also, sorry that Reid and Emily haven't shown up in a hot minute. The next chapter will be centered around them, I just needed some filler to help move the plot along. </p>
<p>(and lastly, i'm aware that cars don't blow up just because you shoot the gas tank, but i'm dramatic and it needed to happen. no one said anything about it, but i don't want you guys to think i'm stupid lol. cuz i'm not, most of the time.)</p>
<p>I hope you enjoyed! Comments and kudos are much appreciated.</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Please comment and leave a kudos if you liked it!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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